


Ten Things About Christine Chapel's Sexuality

by igrockspock



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten moments from Christine Chapel's sex life, from teenager to adult to Starfleet cadet.  Inspired by the blog <a href="http:"></a>25 Things About My Sexuality</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Things About Christine Chapel's Sexuality

**1.**  
When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with matched sets of lace lingerie. I thought that was what grown women did to feel sexy. Now, I feel sexier in black cotton Starfleet briefs and an old tank top. It's what I wear when I'm in my quarters alone. I've never worked up the nerve to answer the door in that, but I think I will one day, and whoever is on the other side will think I'm beautiful.

**2.**  
A couple months after Roger proposed, I stumbled on a burlesque dancer's garage sale. I got a black corset and a pink garter belt, and I wore it around the house alone for days. My tits were tiny, and I didn't have much of an ass before Starfleet PT, but I looked like a pin-up girl and I acted like one too. That gave me the idea to hire a photographer. It was going to be my wedding gift to Roger. Of course, the wedding never happened. I kept the photos for myself, but I gave away the lingerie. Sometimes I miss it, but I never could look at it without thinking about the wedding night that never was. As much as I loved it, it felt like a relic of an old life. Just like Roger.

**3.**  
I wish I had masturbated more when I was a teenager, or even in my early twenties. Nobody ever told me that it was dirty, but nobody told me it was normal and natural either. In fact, no one ever told me anything about it at all. At first, I didn't want to touch myself because I thought it would make being with a man less exciting and special. Then, when I finally was with a man, it just seemed silly. I mean, that was what I had the guy for, right?

**4.**  
The first time I touched myself in my bunk at the Academy, my roommate Gaila -- she was Orion -- whispered into the dark, "I can smell it when you do that." I didn't say anything, but I stopped immediately, and I could feel my face go hot. "I didn't mean to scare you off," she said, "I like it." I wanted to hate her for it. Not because she was different from humans, but because what she said made _me_ different. She told me she could smell me, and I got wetter. All month, I had faithfully clung to the Christine Chapel I'd known at home. I commed my parents. I wrote to my girlfriends. I had changed my life without changing myself, and I counted that as a success. But here was something I could not explain to anyone who had known me before. Oh, I could explain Gaila, how she was from a different culture, how Starfleet taught us to accept each other's differences, no matter how shocking they might be. But I could never say, even to my best girlfriend, "my roommate smells me when I touch myself and it turns me on so much I want to shove my fingers in my pussy and let her hear me come."

Of course, I didn't figure out till later why the whole thing confused me so much. Then, I just kept touching myself, feeling half ashamed but twice as turned on as I could ever remember being with Roger. Gradually, it got to be habit. Sometimes, Gaila touched herself too, sometimes while she listened to me and sometimes afterward. We never said anything about it during the day, but I liked how normal it made masturbation seem. We were just two women taking care of ourselves, and it wasn't any different from polishing our toenails or fixing our hair together.

**5.**  
I have a checklist. A secret one. Keeping it makes me feel like some kind of old-fashioned, perverted man who puts notches on his bed post, but I need it. Other girls complain about never finding a man they want to be with for more than three dates, but I always had the opposite problem. I can fall into a relationship with just about anyone, and I need a reminder that there's more I want from life than that.

I started the list second semester at the Academy. The first thing I wrote was that I wanted someone to slap my ass while he fucked me from behind. I was too ashamed to write "spank" even though that was what I meant. I took care of that one faster than I expected to, but other items have proven stubbornly elusive, like a guy with a really big dick. Gaila tried to send me one for Valentine's Day, but it turned out that I needed more of a connection than "hey Chris, I fucked this guy last night, and his cock is ENORMOUS. You should give him a spin!" It was the only really big fight we had as roommates. Maybe she shouldn't have scrawled the message on his chest with a magic marker.

**6.**  
Anal sex is not on the checklist. I don't care what Gaila or anyone else says. I don't believe a penis will fit in my ass.

**7.**  
Every time I got scared of joining Starfleet, I'd turn all of my disaster nightmares into sex fantasies. It felt empowering. My favorite was about a cave-in. I'd be with some other doctor or nurse, someone broad-shouldered and muscle-bound, and we'd be trapped in a tiny space with limited air and no hope for escape. I'd be lying with my back pressed against his stomach, and I'd feel his cock growing hard and hot against my ass. He'd pull me to him a little tighter, and his hands would wander up my stomach to squeeze my breasts. There wouldn't be any room to move, so he'd have to take me there, just like that, and I did mean take -- no asking, just pinning my wrist to the ground, shoving my panties to the side, and pushing his big cock right inside. I'd come just from the sound of him panting in my ear. After thinking about that for a week straight, I went to Starfleet positively longing for a cave-in.

It happened. We weren't supposed to be on a rescue mission. That's how all disaster stories start -- "we weren't supposed to be." I know that now that I've listened to so many of them in sickbay. Ours was no different. We were cadets, not trained in advanced SAR. That didn't make a difference to us when a cave research team vanished without a trace. We didn't wait for permission; we just went in. None of us were engineers or geologists. No one scanned the structure of the rocks to find a safe passage; we didn't even consider that we needed to. We were just brave young men and women going to save lives.

What I remember most is the sound. My memory is blank when I try to see what happened, but sometimes I still hear the roar in my sleep. All I know is that I was walking and suddenly the world was deafening. I suppose I must have known that rocks were falling all around me, but it felt like I was being crushed by a wave of sound. Everything was black. First I thought my eyes were closed; then I thought I was blind. Maybe I kept believing that because the thought of blindness was less terrifying than the recognition that there was absolutely no light anywhere. My fingers scrabbled on dust and rock and finally the rough stubble of a man lying next to me. Maybe I asked him if he was all right, but probably I didn't. By then, I had forgotten about being a nurse.

I'm older now, and I trust myself to remember my job even when I think I'm going to die. It's one of the biggest victories I'll ever achieve. Maybe some people are even better than that. Maybe some people can say, "I won't die with tears in my eyes," or "I won't die shaking." Maybe some of them can even say, "If I'm going to go out, I'm going to go out with an orgasm." But I'll never be one of them. For me, my imminent death will always be real, and it will always feel tragic. And every time I have feared my death, someone else has always been dying. There has never been anything sexy about it.

**8.**   
On our first shore leave, I bought a strap-on made from shiny black leather. I keep it under my bed in a tricorder case, and I blush every time I think about it. Sometimes I imagine what I'd look like wearing it, but I've never even put it on. I don't know that I'll ever use it, but just owning it makes me feel brave and powerful.

**9.**  
When people ask me about the sexiest thing I've ever done, I tell them it was letting Gaila fuck me in the Academy swimming pool. I never did figure out what she did before she came here, but she must have been some kind of hacker because the door codes at the Academy were never a problem. She let us in late at night, and then she locked the door with some maintenance code she wasn't supposed to have.

It took her all of five seconds to get her swimsuit off. Her back was to me, and she stood still just long enough to let me to let me know she wanted me to check out her ass -- and it _was_ a good ass, the kind that would be the perfect combination of soft and firm. When she was sure that I had appreciated it, she turned and gave me this _look_, and I took off my swimsuit and followed her into the water without saying anything.

I'd been skinny-dipping once before, in high school, probably in a game of truth or dare. We all jumped in my friend's swimming pool, squealed a lot, and put our clothes back on as fast as we could. The experience had nothing to do with our bodies; we just wanted to do something wild without getting caught. This time was different. In the cold water, I felt instantly aware of every inch of my skin. When I turned and swam a lap, I could feel Gaila's eyes on me the whole way.

"You have a nice ass," she said. "It looks so pretty with the water lapping around the edges like that."

I put my feet down on the bottom and turned toward her tentatively. She walked toward me slowly, water rippling around her luscious green breasts, and neither of us made a secret of looking at the other.

"I like your tits too," she said. "They're so nice and perky."

When she got close enough, she spun my nipples between her fingers, tilted my head back, and kissed me slowly while her fingers tangled in my hair. I opened my legs for her, and she looked into my eyes when she slid her fingers inside me.

"So soft," she whispered. "So wet."

Then, with a wicked look in her eye, she shoved two more fingers inside, and said, "Your pussy is _unbelievably_ tight." I clenched my fingers around her and begged her to bite my nipples while I came.

It was everything I couldn't do with dear, sweet Roger, who loved me so much that he could never "disrespect" me like that. That was the day I stopped feeling guilty for leaving him. I'm quiet. I look like a lot of girls next door -- a slender, blue-eyed blond who hovers between cute and pretty but never quite gets to beautiful. I don't look like a woman who needs passion or adventure. But I need them both, and I was right not to settle for someone who couldn't give them to me.

**10.**   
What I did with Gaila was sexy, but the real sexiest moment of my life was something I did with myself. Roger and I had been together for almost three years. His research was at a critical stage, and he started spending almost every night in the lab. I'm not proud of it, but the first few days, I went back to make sure his car was really there. It always was.

For awhile, the emptiness in our apartment drove me crazy. I picked up extra shifts at the hospital and spent evenings eating bad Chinese food and watching sappy holovids. It was true that I didn't quite know what to do without him, but I think I was also afraid that if I could be happy alone, our relationship would be over. But the truth is, it's not in my nature to be a miserable person. One night, I crunched up all the ice cubes in my ice tea, something I could never do when Roger was home. I read magazine articles that he would have ridiculed, and I drank my wine in big gulps without swirling it around and smelling it first. I felt wild.

One Saturday, I got dressed up in a pencil skirt and a frilly top and impractically tall high heels and went shopping. I came home with my hands full of bags, and I didn't care how bad my feet hurt. Normally, I'd comm Roger to hear how his research was going, but that night I didn't bother. Instead, I kicked off my shoes in the middle of the living room floor -- which he totally hated -- and opened a good bottle of Spanish red.

I don't know when I decided I was going to touch myself. I just did. I felt alive, and I needed to show it somehow. I was sitting at the kitchen table -- the old one, with all the dings and scratches that Roger and I couldn't afford to replace. Golden light was slanting through the half-closed mini-blinds, and I could hear my neighbor's vid playing on the other side of the wall. I didn't care.

One by one, I opened the buttons of my top. I had always hated that my tits were too small to need a bra, but that day, I loved how I could see the points of my nipples pushing through my tight white camisole. I twirled one of them between my finger and my thumb, and I didn't try to quiet my gasp.

My skirt was too tight to spread my legs the way I wanted, but I liked feeling a little bound, a little trapped. I sank red fingernails into the skin just above the hemline, marking my body with little crescent moons. It felt like claiming myself. Inch by inch, I slid my skirt up, stroking and caressing every bit of newly exposed flesh and never once wishing for a man's lips instead. When I had it up around my waist, I didn't ask myself if I looked ridiculous; I just savored the air on my thighs and the way the wicker seat bottom bit into my ass along the edges of my panties. They were black lace, and wet all the way through when I touched them. I stroked myself up and down, thinking I needed to make it last, but then I remembered that's how Roger always was -- so kind and thoughtful, so goddamned determined to make love to me even when deep down, I wanted to be fucked sometimes.

I didn't waste any time after that. I slid my hand under the waistband of my panties. I felt soft, damp cloth against the back of my hand and slick flesh under my fingers. It occurred to me that Roger was goddamn lucky to get to feel this every time we made love. Suddenly, I wanted to know what he saw when he was down there, but to take my panties off, I would've had to stop touching myself, so I just pushed them to the side instead. With one hand, I picked up my wine glass and took a long drink while I stared at my fingers buried knuckle deep inside me. My thumb went back and forth across my clit, and my three fingers pumped up and down inside me. I could feel all those smooth, wet muscles clenching around me, and it didn't take long for me to come.

After that, I stumbled to bed on shaky leg and fell asleep with my top undone and my skirt still around my waist. Roger actually came home that night. When he saw me, he thought I was sick, and I didn't bother correcting him. Even though he was exhausted himself, he scrubbed the wine out of my white shirt -- I'd spilled it when I came -- and hung it to dry over the shower curtain before he helped me into my PJs. It took me two more years to leave him, but I think that night was when I started going. I needed him to look at me and see a little wildness, a little passion. I wanted him to know what had happened and fuck me right there. And maybe I could have told him, but I don't think he would have heard.

I used to think I was looking for the man who could eclipse the memory of that night. It seemed wrong somehow that my sexiest memory was with myself. But now I think it's better that way. Men come and go, even when you don't plan for it, but I'll always have myself.


End file.
